


Five Hundred and Two Days

by accio_magic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And it sucks, Gen, George Weasley is a shell of the man he used to be, Grief, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sirius there's a lot of feels here, Joanne was wrong to kill Fred, Light Angst, One Shot, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Second Wizarding War, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, slight PTSD, so many feels, there i said it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 22:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18291449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accio_magic/pseuds/accio_magic
Summary: George Weasley's life is nothing like it once was. After the death of his twin, he's all but of a shell of who he once was. When he finds an ingredient list for a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes idea he and Fred cooked up years ago, he sets out to search The Forbidden Forest for a rare plant that is vital to the product's creation. Things take an interesting turn when he finds more than he set out for. Set sixteen months after The Battle of Hogwarts. ONE SHOT. COMPLETE.





	Five Hundred and Two Days

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been through so many revisions that I'm wondering if I'll ever be truly pleased with it. First written in 2014 and published to FFN, I originally updated/tweaked it for AO3 in 2017. However, going back to read it I was really displeased with it so I decided a (nearly) full rewrite was in order. I'm much happier with this version, and unless I spot any grammatical or punctuation errors, I swear I won't be touching it again. Fingers crossed, anyways!
> 
> As always, I do not own the source material.... unfortunately. Thanks to my friend Alyssa for helping me polish it up for a (final) publishing! <3 All errors are my own!

George Weasley woke up with a number on his mind. Five-hundred and two to be exact. Today was the 19th of September and it had been five hundred and two days since his twin had died. Today, like the previous five hundred and one days, George refused to look in the mirror, shunning the face that only reminded him of the brother no longer at his side. He passed the walls where the mirrors in his apartment used to hang with an unwavering resolve to ignore the empty spaces, as well as the aching feeling that clawed at his ribs. Once inside his washroom he turned on the tap as he did every morning. George was in need of a hot shower to wash away the night sweats and stench of lingering fear that clung to him from his nightmares. Both ensnared him, weighing him down, just as they did every other morning for the past year and a half.

George tossed his pants in the direction of his other dirty clothes, adding to the pile he'd forgotten to wash for the third time this month. He'd have to wash them soon or else he'd run out of clean _anything_. As soon as steam began to slink about the small room, he stepped into the shower, wincing slightly as the rush of water scalded his skin.

He didn't linger under the fiery water too long. It only took a few moments to shampoo the shortly clipped hair covering his scalp, a style he’d adopted the day after he and his family had buried his twin. With only an inch or so of hair all over, it was shorter than he or Fred had ever worn it, and took scarcely any effort to clean quickly. Within six minutes his hair and body were both scrubbed clean (if not a bit raw). He cleaned his teeth, his movements mechanical. It was only fifteen minutes since he had awoken, but George had already completed all of his morning routines, donned his field robes, and collected his wand from his bedside table.

He abandoned all intentions of breakfast when as his stomach rolled at the thought of food. His body was too on edge to even entertain the idea of eating, so all he needed to do now was leave his flat. An easy enough task for most, but today every single part of him screamed at him to stay, to crawl back under his covers and ignore what he had planned for the day. If he lingered at home any longer he'd chicken out and never leave. George knew he couldn't do that. Knew he wouldn't want him to. **He'd call me a girl** , George thought, **then laugh at me for being such a scaredy-cat.**

 **No,** George thought with a jerky shake of his head **. He would have understood.**

Steeling himself with a deep breath, George turned sharply on his heel and apparated to the iron gates that would lead him to Hogwarts -- or at least, to the grounds. The twisting and pulling sensation that came with Apparation that bothered most was nothing compared to what George felt on a daily basis. His world constantly felt off-kilter. The constricting, wonky feeling associated with apparition didn't even register in his mind anymore. It hadn’t for a long time.

When he arrived at his destination moments later he walked the five feet to the gates, tapped one of the metal bars with his wand and murmured the incantation he'd been instructed to cast. McGonagall had originally suggested he floo directly into her office, but George had vehemently declined. If he had it his way, he would enter The Forbidden Forest before the Castle even came into his line of sight.

No, George much preferred arriving in this manner.

It didn't take long for the iron gates to creak open, and George silently thanked McGonagall for understanding his need to be alone. For his need to do this as quickly as possible and with minimal distractions. George took a stuttering breath, swallowed heavily, and stepped between the columns with the Winged Boars and through the open gates. His knuckles cracked as he tightened his hands into fists, his heart rate increasing dramatically with each stiff step he took. This was the first time since the war that George had stepped foot on the grounds of Hogwarts, and it was clear that his body was against the idea of coming back.

He considered turning back, taking those four steps back and then disapparating away to his flat. He could change his field robes and simply go into work. As hard as it was to be at the shop, this was harder. Being here, even on the outskirts, was like having it happen all over again. George bit into his cheek and willed himself to get a grip. The metallic taste of blood hit his taste buds, which only sent his stomach rolling further. Ten minutes -twenty at the most- and he'd be done. He could leave. He wouldn't have to come back. Not ever. If he could just find the spot he and his brother had discovered all those years ago then he could send someone else to collect the plants when he needed a new supply. Neville instantly came to mind, what with his passion for Herbology. Hermione, even. She'd helped him around the shop before; he knew he only need ask and she would happily do so again. He briefly regretted not asking her to come with him today, but shook away the thought almost as quickly as it came to mind, knowing this was something he had to take on alone.

The ingredients had been written on a scrap of parchment that looked as if it had been crumpled up more than just a few times. It was a mere accident that he had even found it to begin with. Three days ago he'd been forced to clear out parts of the storage room, an oddly shaped room at the back of the shop that was used more as a junk room than proper storage. He would have been happy to leave the room as it were had he not of been in desperate need of more square footage for storing the shop's excess inventory. Two days ago he opened an old, battered trunk that was filled with what George initially believed was rubbish. Upon closer inspection, he realized it actually contained scraps of notes and half finished products. In it George found something he thought long lost. When he'd realized what he'd come across, elation nearly overtook him, but it was quickly extinguished when he remembered that his partner in crime was no longer there to share his joy. Exhilaration over discovering that particular idea after misplacing it so long ago seemed wrong. After all, there was nothing to get excited for, not when his twin wasn’t there to share in the excitement with him.

George shook his head and banished the thought that threatened to overwhelm him with a fresh wave of cutting grief. He needed to stop thinking about the past. Instead, he needed to focus on the task at hand, not on memories that did nothing but haunt him. Focusing on finding the damned elusive plant, digging up its roots, plucking its leaves, and returning home to perfect the recipe was all he could bear to have on his mind. He had to stop thinking about what might've been and focus on the future, even if it was a future without his other half. He had focus on getting by, if only for his parents and not himself.

Truth be told, the only reason he was doing this was because he dreamed of Fred the night he’d dug through that trunk. His brother demanded he do it, nothing more or less than a sharp "Get on with it, you wanker!” paired with infectious laughter that seemed to haunt him even as he left the cocoon of sleep, and his brother, behind. George knew his brother couldn't come back and that it wasn't really him who he saw in his dream, but he still felt obligated to do as his twin bade him. That morning he'd studied that wrinkly bit of torn parchment, staring at it until his vision went blurry and all he could think about was not wanting to let his brother down.

Forcing his mind back to the present, George continued to make his way through the forest, his steps quick and sure. Sunlight had yet to penetrate the trees' leaves, leaving the air several degrees cooler than it had been outside of the forest. It wasn't bright by any means, but George didn't have much difficulty navigating the landscape. Sneaking about after hours for nearly his entire life had paid off in that he needed very little light to make his way around. It was a talent one had to acquire if any real mischief was to take flight, especially in the wee hours of the morning when shadows clung to every surface, nook, and cranny.

After walking briskly for what he reckoned to be five minutes, he stopped to cast a navigation spell to make certain he was headed in the proper direction. He wasn't. George muttered under his breath and turned right, hoping he hadn't gotten too off track. Two minutes later he started seeing pops of color near the larger trees, a faint smile ghosting his lips as his eyes scanned the white, red, and orange blossoms. A few feet farther and a clearing roughly a quarter of the size of a Quidditch Pitch came into view. The forest floor was littered with the plants he was after. He let loose a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. There would be plenty of plants to gather today, and a sustainable supply for his future needs.

George had come prepared: inside his robes was a shrunken trowel and two charmed plastic bags that would keep the plants fresh until he was ready to use them. Removing all three items and charming the trowel back to normal size, George went to work. He had collected nearly half a bag of the plant's small, iridescent green leaves when he decided to go ahead and dig the roots up as well. He stood up and walked over to a particularly abundant patch and began nudging the collection of dead leaves, pine cones, and sticks away so he could get to the base of the plant. He knelt again, not caring that he was dirtying up his trousers. Magic could get nearly anything out of clothing, so he wasn’t a bit concerned over the damp soil soaking into the dense fabric of his corduroys. Besides, when did a bit of dirt ever truly hurt something?

Deciding to forgo the use of the gardening tool, George began digging with his hands. The soil was moist, giving easily as he brushed it away from the roots he was after. He was mentally going over the required way to pull the roots up (if he just ripped them out of the ground the damned things would be useless) when something snapped a branch behind him.

His head whipped around so quickly it sent pain shooting into the tops of his shoulders. Ignoring the cramping muscles, he hastily grabbed his wand from the ground beside him. Ready to fire, George slowly stood up and took a step in the direction he had heard the noise. His muscles tightened in anticipation, heart hammering against his ribcage, thrumming in his ears. He pressed his lips together in thin line, jaw locking into place as he braced himself for the worst. The Forbidden Forest was protected by Hogwarts' magical boundaries, but there was always a chance a rogue Death Eater could slip through.

It had, after all, happened before. Twice.

He took in the woods before him, eyes wide and alert, scanning the clearing and the trees beyond it. He’d nearly formed a stunning curse when a doe walked out of the trees and into the clearing. Their eyes met and both he and the doe froze. Seconds later the animal deemed him trouble, taking off frantically, her hooves digging deeply into the soft earth beneath her. Had he been younger, he would have chuckled at himself and at the startled deer. But that was before. Before losing Fred. Now everything was different. Now his laughter was all but non-existent, and it hardly ever lasted longer than a few fleeting moments; now when he laughed all he could hear was the absence of his brother, and he already had quite enough going on to remind him of that.

Chiding himself and the departed deer, George trudged back to his things and lowered his body back onto the ground. As he settled once more into the earth something hard and sharp dug into his right knee. He scrunched his face up in irritation and lifted his leg up slightly. His hand searched for the offending object and before long his fingers found a small stone. He nearly tossed it aside, but a tug in his gut made him stop. Upon closer inspection it appeared to be hand carved. Once he rubbed the dirt away from it he saw that the surface was impossibly smooth. He turned it in his hands, three times to be exact, his face crinkling in confusion. Odd place to lose something that could very well be valuable. Shrugging, he figured he'd owl it to Minerva once he was back at his flat.

He leaned back so he could place the stone in his pocket, his backside digging into his boots as he did so. That's when he saw it. _Him_ . George froze, his hand still clasped around the small, black stone. He blinked furiously and then pinched his arm viciously with his free hand. It couldn't be. George had to be dreaming, or hallucinating. A hallucination was the only logical explanation for what he was seeing, for _who_ he was seeing. Despite his hard pinches and his mental commands to wake up and snap out of it, the person in front of him did not go away, and George did not wake up.

It had been sixteen months, two weeks, and three days since Fred had stood in front of George. It had been more than twelve thousand and fifty hours since he had last seen his brother, his other half, and George couldn't quite believe his eyes. He must be going mad. The lack of REM sleep was finally catching up to him. Or he could be dying, which seemed very likely seeing as he currently felt like he was having a heart attack at the young age of twenty-one. Pain was radiating throughout his body, the raw emotion of seeing whom he was seeing beat down upon him like a dozen Beaters’ bats. There were very few logical explanations for what George was seeing, and considering he wasn’t in front of the famed Mirror of Erised, and no one was around to cast a spell on him, the only conclusion he came to was that he was dying and this was simply a vision to bring him peace in his last moments.

George sucked in numerous, frantic gasps of air, flooding his body with oxygen in attempt to test his lung function. He stood up on shaky legs, waiting for his body to fall out from underneath him, waiting for it to prove to him that he truly was dying. Despite the weakness he felt in his heart his legs stood strong and firm. He blinked several times more, positive that each time he clenched his eyes shut he’d open them to an empty forest.

Each time his eyes opened he was still there.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

It was Fred, wearing the biggest shit eating grin George had ever seen. 

"Hullo, Forge. Long time no see."

For the first time in over a year, George threw his head back and laughed. And if tears flowed down his face as he did so? Well then, there was no one there but his brother to see. For the first time in five hundred and two days, George felt whole again.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this wasn't too hard on ya'll's emotions! It murdered mine when I originally came up with it!  
> As for the inspiration of this fic, all I can say is that I've never truly accepted Fred's death, and I was desperate for some closure. I also hope that any readers who've read the original aren't too upset with me for revamping this fic.
> 
> I'd love to hear feedback, even if it's just a keyboard smash of emotions! And, as always, thanks for stopping by and giving my writing a read (or reread). Much love to you all!


End file.
